


i can be hurtful, i can be purple (i can be anything you like)

by santiagone



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Car Trips, Enemies to Lovers, F/M, Fluff, Humor, Storms, Traffic Jams, basically the whole package
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-17
Updated: 2016-01-17
Packaged: 2018-05-14 09:42:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,965
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5738869
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/santiagone/pseuds/santiagone
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jemma’s not sure what’s worse: being stuck in a traffic jam during a thunderstorm, or being stuck in said traffic jam with Leopold Fitz. Given how she can’t decide whether she’d rather politely break his nose or not-so-politely kiss him senseless, she’d probably say it’s the latter.</p>
            </blockquote>





	i can be hurtful, i can be purple (i can be anything you like)

**Author's Note:**

> Warning: If you don't like excessive eye-rolling, snarky FitzSimmons, or literally too much arguing for one tiny car, please turn away now! If not, feel free to proceed.  
> Title was taken from the song Grace Kelly, which was the whole inspiration for this fic. I recommend you listen to it, because the lyrics perfectly match this fic, oops.  
> Amidst all the (admittedly enjoyable) angst, I thought it was necessary to bring a little bit of fluff to our lives! Thus, this fic was born. Enjoy!

I could be wholesome  
I could be loathsome  
I guess I'm a little bit shy  
Why don't you like me?  
Why don't you like me without making me try? 

__Grace Kelly - MIKA_ _

 

_1._

 

“I can’t believe this.”

“Neither can I, if that helps.”

Jemma shoots Fitz a glare from her seat, and tries to ignore the way his shirt is soaked through. “It doesn't.”

He gives her a _look_. It’s one of those looks that’s she’s sure she’s never going to forget. It’s the look that’s seared into her mind every time she closes her eyes. It’s the look that can switch her mood in an instant. It’s the look that reminds Jemma just how much she hates Leopold Fitz.

She’d close her eyes and groan to the heavens, but seeing as she’s driving - there he goes, dripping water in her _brand new_ car - she feels like that would be rather irresponsible. So instead she settles for muttering under her breath and tapping the steering wheel restlessly, wondering why on Earth the cosmos has cursed her this way.

“You do realise that I can hear you, right?” he remarks, and she can practically _taste_ the scorn in his words. Wait. No. Taste is not the appropriate adjective.

She won’t give him the satisfaction for a reply, so instead she grits her teeth and practically throws herself back in her chair. Jemma loves rain, but not _this_ sort of rain. Not the sort of rain that pummels at the windows like it has a personal grudge against her. Not the sort of rain that comes with all these annoying side effects, like winds that force your umbrella inside out, or roads that suddenly become increasingly slippery, or harrowing weather conditions that mean a long trail of cars moving at a snail's pace along the highway.

And more specifically, not the sort of rain that means she has to shuffle her arch-nemesis to a party (which she hadn’t even wanted to attend in the first place, mind you!), not the sort that means she has to put up with Fitz for longer than absolutely necessary.

She wrinkles her nose and makes an obvious noise of dislike when Fitz puts his feet up on the dashboard, but either he doesn’t notice or he’s doing it purposely to annoy her, because he doesn’t move them. Instead, he runs a hand through his hair and Jemma takes advantage of the barely crawling traffic to spare a glance at him. It’s obvious he’s been caught in the rain; there’s droplets of water on his nose, his clothes are dripping water, and his hair is an unusually dark shade. She’s about to ask whether his hair always turns that colour when wet, when she abruptly remembers who she’s talking to and snaps her mouth shut, resolutely training her gaze back on the road.

That’s when she realises he’s talking, somewhat to himself, mumbling and cursing as he wrings his hair out.

“‘It’ll be fine,’ she said. ‘Jemma can’t hurt a fly,’ she said. ‘It’s just for one car ride,’ she said. Bloody Skye. I didn’t even want to go to the party in the first place, mind you,” Jemma tries not to widen her eyes, “and now here I am, stuck in a car with Jemma freaking Simmons.”

“Oh, don’t try and blame Skye for this,” scoffs Jemma, just for something to say. She can feel him staring at her even though she’s peering at the road.

“You don’t seriously think this is my fault?”

She shrugs and smirks to herself. “Well, if _someone’s_ car hadn’t broken down..”

“Um, not broken down! _Crashed_. Otherwise I'd have fixed it and I wouldn’t be here right now.”

Oddly, he seems rather offended by the whole affair. She rolls her eyes.

“Like crashing it is any better.”

She can see him crossing his arms in her peripheral vision (because yes, she is avoiding looking at him, and no, it’s not childish).

“Right, so you happen to have a new car because you _purposely_ backed into a concrete mixer,” he says, somewhat smugly, and she hopes he’s too busy gloating to notice the furious flush climbing it’s way up her neck.

“That was one time! Besides, the average driver experiences a crash every 17.9 years,” she recites. Normally recalling facts calms her down, but there’s something about Fitz that leaves her flustered and frustrated, and she _hates_ it.

“I’m pretty sure this is your third car crash,” Fitz points out.

“Since when did you know so much about me?” she fires back, and she’s pleased to see him falter for a moment.

“I don’t,” he says after a moment, and Jemma laughs, but it comes out a little more like a scoff.

“Of course. You hate me.”

He doesn’t say anything. She doesn’t look over. These are the lines of which they never cross.

 

_2._

 

She thinks they actually might have moved a few centimetres forward when it happens. He leans forward and peels his jacket off. That’s bad enough, but then his hands move to his shirt, and she shrieks, giving him a wide eyed stare.

“What do you think you’re doing?”

He raises his eyebrows at her. “I was in the rain, Simmons. All my clothes are wet. Aren’t you supposed to know the statistical probability of me getting sick if I keep them on?”

“Um, yes,” she manages, and she refuses to admit that her voice is higher than it’s ever been before, “but that gives you no excuse to strip in my car!”

It’s his turn to widen his eyes. “I’m not going to strip. I’m just going to get changed. It’s an overnight stay at Skye’s, remember? I brought spare clothes.”

“Yes, but, well, I really think - I mean, you don’t have to get changed. I’m sure statistics aren’t necessarily accurate all the time, I think in this one case, that maybe, I mean, I’m sure-” She’s pretty sure her words are incomprehensible now, but for some absurd reason her cheeks are flushed and her mind is jumbled and is it just her but is it strangely hot for the middle of a thunderstorm?

“Right. I’m going to get changed now, okay?”

Oh, she can practically _feel_ the smugness radiating off him, and she thinks she might have to spend the rest of this damned trip glowering over the steering wheel. This has got to be one of the top contenders for her list of Reasons to Hate Leopold Fitz. Or at least, that’s until he unbuckles his seatbelt and scrambles up awkwardly to climb in the backseat.

“What are you _doing_?” she hisses, nervously glancing at the other cars on the highway.

“Getting changed,” he replies, equally indignant. “You don’t want me to do it in the front seat, do you?”

“But what about your seatbelt? We’re in a car, this is breaking the law!” she protests.

He sticks his head back through to the front.

“Jemma, we’re in a traffic jam. No one’s moving.”

“Fine,” she concedes begrudgingly. “Forgive me if I didn’t want everyone to get the wrong impression.”

“Don’t look!” is the only response, and Jemma grits her teeth.

“Wasn’t planning to,” she mumbles, staring resolutely ahead, hands tapping nervously on the steering wheel and her desperately trying not to think _Leopold Fitz is undressing in my car, Leopold Fitz is undressing in my car,_ over and over like a broken record.

And if her eyes happen to slide up to the rearview mirror, it’s definitely and totally an accident.

 

_3._

 

Somewhere along the line, it actually starts to rain harder, if that’s in any way possible. Jemma’s jaw is starting to ache from her clenching it so much, and she thinks she might have left nail marks on her steering wheel. Her new car is becoming more damaged by the second and it’s all Fitz’s fault. She gives up on her sport of willing the traffic along to trade it in for a much preferred one: glaring at Fitz.

They sit without speaking for a long time, and eventually the silence becomes unbearable. Desperate for something to fill the space, she reaches for the radio - only to find he’s doing the exact same thing.

They share a disbelieving glance. Jemma refuses to back down.

“I will fight you on this,” she informs.

“So will I.” He pauses. “Unless you like the same music as me?”

Jemma considers this for a split second. “I’m really doubting that.”

They’re quiet for a moment, silently daring each other to speak. Then, she blurts out, “Pop!” just as he announces, “Indie!” and they’re left staring at each other incredulously.

And then comes the storm.

“You like _pop_ music?” Fitz splutters, and if Jemma were his mother (which she’s not, just to clarify) she’d be appalled by his tone. Instead, she narrows her eyes.

“What’s wrong with pop music?”

“It’s trashy! Pop stars are just people picked up by the industry and inflated to be famous-”

“Oh, like indie music is _any_ different-”

“It is, actually!”

“Really? Would you care to explain these differences to me, Leopold?”

“Okay, only my mother calls me that..”

Jemma’s not entirely sure how long they continue on in this fashion, but she knows it’s for a long, long while. And although she most definitely, undeniably, _truly_ hates Fitz, she has to admit there’s something about arguing with him that is - God forbid - actually _fun_. He has an clever response for everything she fires at him, and a way of challenging her that is rare, and okay, maybe sometimes she almost forgets how much she detests him. Almost.

Eventually, when another strong gust of wind buffets the car back and forth, Jemma bites her lip and makes a decision she figures she’s probably going to regret.

“Roshambo. Winner picks the station.”

He smiles at her and holds out his hand. And before she knows it, she’s staring at him in dismay, because somehow, he’s managed to win. She glowers at him as he reaches for the radio, catching his hand before he can touch it.

“I lied,” she tells him. “This is my car, I should be able to listen to whatever I want.”

“Are you sure?” He grins at her, and she curses his unfairly attracti- _atrocious_ smile. “I didn’t know Jemma No-Shenanigans Simmons was a cheater.”

She gapes at him. “You know about Sitwell?”

He shrugs, and then rolls his eyes. “Everyone knows about Sitwell, Jemma.”

Her cheeks are colouring, but she leans back in her seat and eyes him warily. She refuses to be embarrassed by Fitz.

“Okay,” he relents. “Skye told Trip who told Mack who told Hunter who told, well, everyone. But on the bright side, it’s a great conversation starter? I’ve gotten a lot of phone numbers with that one.”

She raises her eyebrows at him, and now it’s his turn to flush red.

“You got phone numbers telling stories about _me_? You use _me_ as a pick-up line?”

“Don’t make a fuss, it’s not a big deal.”

Jemma laughs in delight, and suddenly the traffic jam seems a little less inconvenient. Emphasis on the little.

“Do you even get any numbers?” she teases.

Fitz shrinks down in his seat, as if wishing he could disappear. “Of course,” he says defensively, and when she gives him a disbelieving look, he sighs and adds, “Okay, so maybe it’s not the perfect system. But I’m working on it!”

She laughs, and then stops, momentarily surprised. Is she actually having _fun_ with Leopold Fitz? On a list of one to impossible, she’d have to say that it’s a strong impossible. And yet… she steals a glance at him.

“No significant other, then?” she asks casually.

Or maybe not so casually, because he shoots her a strange look.

“No. But neither do you.”

She blinks in surprise. “How do you know that?”

“Um - well, Skye, of course.”

Jemma shakes her head. “It’s worrying how much you guys seem to talk about me.”

 

_4._

 

At this point, she’s positive that they’re never going to escape the car. Ever. And it’s rather concerning, because her legs are starting to cramp, and her stomach is starting to growl, and oh yes, she’s stuck in a car with her worst enemy.

Her stomach has taken to rumbling lightly every few intervals, and she flushes each time, hoping the rain is too loud for Fitz to hear. She remembers that she didn’t have enough time for breakfast this morning, and curses Skye for what might be the nineteenth time.

Out of the blue, Fitz reaches down and rifles around in his bag, and to her surprise, draws out a bag of Sour Patch Kids. At her disbelieving expression, he grins.

“If your stomach growled one more time I think I would have gone mad.”

She sniffs. “Do you carry sweets with you everywhere you go?”

“Naturally.” He rips open the packet and holds it out to her. “Here.”

She crinkles her nose at him. “Do you have any idea how much sugar is in those?”

He looks somewhat offended. “‘Course I do. It’s the only reason I eat them in the first place.”

“I have no clue how you stay so well formed,” she groans, and immediately realises her mistake as soon as Fitz’s eyebrows shoot up.

“You think I’m well formed?”

“No.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes,” she grits out.

“Because I’m pretty sure I just heard those exact words come out of your mouth-”

“Eat your candy, Fitz.”

He pops a few in his mouth, and then shakes the bag enticingly at her. “Sure you don’t want some? They’re good. And there’s nothing else to eat in this car..”

Honestly, she’s just surprised her glare hasn’t killed him yet. “No.”

But after a moment: “I’ll have a green one.”

 

_5._

 

Jemma’s bored out of her mind. She has two PhD’s, a high intelligence level, and a great imagination, and yet here she is, sitting in her with absolutely nothing to do.

This is the only reason she talks to Fitz, of course.

He’s got his feet up on the dashboard again, but she’s long since given up moaning at him. He’s frowning in concentration, his tongue peeking out between his teeth, hunched over a sketchpad. There’s a pencil scribbling across the paper, which is somewhat alarming, because Jemma hadn’t even known Fitz _could_ draw.

“What are you sketching?” she inquires after a moment, alternating between glancing at him and glaring out at the road.

“You.”

She blinks. “What?”

He glances up at her and laughs, to which she feels generally affronted by. “I’m just kidding, Simmons. I’m working on some designs for my next project.”

“Oh, of course. You’re an engineer, aren’t you?” she remembers.

He nods, and she perks up, interest suddenly peaked. “Give us a look, then.”

Fitz grabs his sketchbook. “Uh - actually, they’re kind of private.”

She frowns at him. “Oh, Fitz, honestly. Just because I work in a similar profession doesn’t mean I’m going to steal your ideas. I’m a biochemist, not an engineer.” She crinkles her nose, and as he opens his mouth to argue, she takes the moment to lean forward and deftly steal the sketchbook right from his lap.

She opens it triumphantly, but it’s not sketches she’s faced with. “Oh. You _are_ drawing me.”

She glances up, but Fitz is determinedly looking out the window.

“Yeah, so what?”

Jemma shrugs, but she’s not exactly offended as she glances down at the sketches. She would never have guessed that Fitz is such a good artist, and it takes her by surprise how much detail is put into the picture.

Still, she can’t help but jibe.

“Do I look this pretty in real life?”

“No,” he scowls, snatching his book back. “‘Course not.”

“Ugh,” Jemma scoffs, turning back to her steering wheel and, oddly, trying not to feel disappointed. “ _Engineers._ ”

He sighs, equally exasperated. “ _Biochemists._ ”

 

_6._

 

“I spy with my little eye… something beginning with I.”

She taps at the wheel, smiling to herself. It’s silly, how they’ve resorted to childhood games, but one can only complain about the music choice for so long before the conversation comes to a stilted halt.

Fitz frowns, leaning forward to glance out the window. She takes advantage of his movement to sneak another glance at his portrait of her, and she’d be lying if she says she doesn’t like it just a little bit.

“Ice?” he asks.

She rolls her eyes. “No.”

“Iguana?”

She shoots him an incredulous look. “Do you see any iguanas around here?”

“Um.. illegal downloads?”

“You’ve been spending too much time with Skye,” she accuses. “Admit defeat.”

“Fine, fine. What is it?”

She smirks smugly to herself. “Idiot.”

“That’s not something you can see.” Fitz frowns.

Jemma raises one eyebrow. “Really? Because I can see one.”

It takes a moment for him to clue in, and then he narrows his eyes. “Okay, fine, if _that’s_ how you want to play it.. I spy with my little eye.. something beginning with P.”

Innocently, “Pig?”

“Haha, very funny Simmons.”

 

_7._

 

They’ve been stuck in a car for longer than she cares for, and they’ve exhausted every car travelling game there is. At this point, Jemma just wants to return to a Fitz-free home and take a relaxing bath.

“I’m hungry,” Fitz moans.

“Yes, I know,” she says impatiently. “You only remind me every eight and a half minutes.”

“Consistency is key, Simmons,” he says lightly, and she rolls her eyes.

“Who taught you that lesson? Hunter?”

Before he can respond, a familiar song leaks out of the radio and swallows up the silence, and she glances up in surprise.

“That’s not an indie song..” Her head snaps to Fitz immediately. “I didn’t change the channel, I swear.”

It’s his turn to roll his eyes this time. “That’s because I did. I’m surprised that it took you this long to notice.”

She frowns at him. “I’m not sure I understand.”

“It was never on the indie channel, Jemma,” he explains. “I lied. I don’t even care about what type of music we listen to. I couldn’t name a song off the top of my head even if I tried.”

Jemma stares at him as the realisation slowly starts to creep in. “But then.. why did you lie?”

He looks away. "I don’t know, Simmons,” he mumbles.

“Fine,” she huffs. “Don’t tell me, then.”

There’s a hand on her arm before she can even register it’s happening, and then all of a sudden there’s lips against lips, and oh dear god, Leopold Fitz is kissing Jemma Simmons. And she’s _responding_ , pressing forward against him, into it. Absently, she recognises that his hand has slid up to her neck, and before she can get the chance to tilt her head ever so slightly, it’s over before it’s even begun.

“Oh,” she manages, once the haze has started to fade, and she’s realising what just happened. She’s breathless, but he must be too, because he’s inhaling sharply. She can still feel his lips ghosting across hers as he jerks rapidly away. She stares at him for a moment, wide-eyed, afraid of the answer she might receive to the question she’s silently asking. “Fitz?”

“Um, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have done that,” he says quickly. “We don’t have to talk about this. Actually, let’s not talk about this. Ever. Thanks.”

“Leo,” she says fiercely, “if you don’t tell me what’s going on I will tape you to the roof of this car.”

He stares at her for a long, long time, mouth slightly agape, but she refuses to do anything but stare him down. They’re stuck in this car, in the traffic, in a thunderstorm, so there’s literally nowhere for him to go. She knows that he knows she’s won, and even in that moment she can’t help but grin at him triumphantly.

That prompts an eye roll from him, naturally.

“Lord, Jemma. You can’t even give up when I’m confessing.”

She blinks coyly at him. “Is this what this is, then? A confession? I thought you hated me.”

He snorts. “Obviously.”

“Well, go on then. I don’t know about you, but I’m quite eager to hear this confession.”

He laughs. “Of course you are,” he says, and she can’t help but smile back.

“Okay, um,” Fitz starts, and his eyes are creased in concentration, or nervousness, or maybe just in thought, she’s not entirely sure. “So, I actually did kind of hate you at the start. Not hate, but.. you were so annoying! You wouldn’t allow food into a lab, and you made me take off my shoes before coming inside, and you’re so proper that it actually drives me mad.”

“You hated me for being _proper_?”

“Let me finish my story, Jemma!”

“Right. Sorry.”

“Uh, anyway. I hated you for a while, but then we started arguing and I sort of realised.. well.. maybe I sort of realised that I liked arguing with you. I liked the way you got all huffy whenever I was right, and the way you picked a fight with the scariest people over the smallest things, I liked the way your eyebrows creased and your mouth opened and the way you crossed your arms when you were angry. I liked hating Jemma Simmons.”

For some strange reason, Jemma finds that she can’t tear her eyes away from Fitz. “And what about now?”

“Now..” He hesitates. “Now, I like _liking_ Jemma Simmons. I like the way your face lights up when you get excited about things you’re passionate about. I like the way you moan when I put my feet up on the dashboard, and I like kissing you. A lot. And also.. I still kind of like hating you.”

There’s silence for a long pause, and Fitz’s expression is hopeful and honest and _true_. And, without quite thinking, she makes her mind up there and then.

She lurches forward and crashes her lips into his, moving her hands up to thread through his hair. She’s pleased when he responds back just as enthusiastically, his hands coming up to cup her jaw, and the gear stick is digging into her stomach but she can’t bring herself to care, not when their lips are moving in sync and he’s nipping at her lips.

She thinks she could stay locked in this embrace forever, but then there’s a loud honk from behind them, and they break apart instantly, flushed and flustered (but not unhappy). Jemma widens her eyes at the road, because somehow, during their, ahem, engagement, the storm’s lessened and the roads have cleared out somewhat.

“For the record,” she says, trying not to smile as she puts her foot down on the accelerator, “I like hating you too.”

 

_extra._

 

Fitz pulls out his phone as they’re speeding along, and she can see him grinning out of the corner of her eye.

“I think we need to do one last thing,” he says, and she nods.

“Naturally.”

It’s not long before the phone’s ringing through on speaker, and an all too-familiar voice is greeting them a cheery hello.

“Hey guys! Have a nice road trip?”

Fitz and Jemma exchange looks.

“Skye,” Jemma says, her tone dangerous. “Did you plan for Fitz and I to get stuck in traffic?”

“Um..” There’s frenzied whispering from the other side, and both Fitz and Jemma can barely hold back their snickers.

“Daisy Johnson,” warns Fitz.

“Oh no,” worries Skye. “He used my full name. Oh god. That’s his I’m-Really-Angry-With-You voice. Shit. Guys, what do I do?”

“That’s not his Angry-With-Skye voice,” comes an amused voice, and Jemma and Fitz both widen their eyes at each other. “That’s his I-Just-Kissed-Jemma-Simmons voice.”

Simultaneously, “ _May_ was in on this?”


End file.
